


Start of Time

by mandaree1



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Custody Concerns, Dadnold, Financial Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugs, Pre-Canon, Running Away, Tickle Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 21:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandaree1/pseuds/mandaree1
Summary: When Donald hits a rough patch, Gladstone steps in with a private offer to take the boys in. Instead, they run away.





	Start of Time

Dewey swallows up Uncle Donald's attention like a thirsty hiker in the desert does their last drop of water. It's just a fact of life. Has been since he hatched (or so Louie assumes. He wasn't around for before that). It's not intentional- at the very least, Louie doesn't think he intends to take the spotlight from his brothers. He's always needed that little extra oomph, is all, and he gets that by acting up.

They're all troublemakers. Louie wouldn't deny that allegation. Dewey is the triplet who takes it a bit too far. Takes the envelope they're tentatively pushing and rips it open with a butter knife. Takes the sled and sends them careening off a high slope, cracking bones and generally wasting a lot of Uncle Donald's precious money. Takes no care of himself, forcing Huey to do it for him. Amps up the fun, kills their allowance.

That's fine. The nice thing about Dewey, amongst other, more mushy things, is that it's easy to profit off him. Today, he makes bets on him, collecting and storing money in his pockets, watching from behind the faded red curtain as he makes himself center stage. He's playing a flower. He's not really a main character, but that's never stopped their Dewey. The costumes trap his arms, knocking his balance askew. The 'act' ends prematurely, when he falls over, making a wheezed quip about seeing a bright windowsill.

Louie barely startles when Huey's hand settles on his shoulder. His webbed feet are planted to the ground like roots, watching with wonder as actors mill about. The thought of being in front of so many parents- Uncle Donald especially- terrifies him to his very bones. That's probably why Dewey gets all of the attention and he gets... well, saying none isn't right. He gets attention.

"Oh, hey," he whispers. The play isn't over yet. He's not supposed to be back here, but having one brother in the play and the other be a stagehand gives a duckling perks. "I just made ten bucks."

"Louie," Huey says. That's all he says about it. Ever. It's always just a look and his name. Uncle Donald gives him a look too, but Uncle Donald yells a lot more. "Come'on back with me. Mrs. Johnson brought cookies for the stagehands."

Louie lets himself be shepherded away. Backstage is dim and almost creepy. The loud, cheery music drowns out their creaky footsteps. The youngest duckling trailed his fingers across the extra curtain, feeling it dip away just slightly. He imagines Uncle Donald in the front row, holding a video camera close to his chest. The darn thing doesn't work very well. Never has. Louie doesn't think he's been video-taped since he was first learning to walk. A cryptid-in-training.

Kids flit back and forth at the snack table, craving more but not wanting to be scolded for taking more. Louie takes a single cookie and nibbles at it, eyeing the others shrewdly. They're plain sugar cookies, with frosting and sprinkles on top. They're not his favorites, but he hasn't been able to have something sugary in weeks, not counting the stuff he pilfers from other kids' lunch boxes. Huey wraps one in napkins for Dewey and has Louie store it away in his pockets. For a guy who loves to be prepared, you'd think he'd have some pockets on him.

"Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Johnson!" Huey chirps when the teacher passes by. Louie shoves his hands in his pockets and finds something interesting on the wall. He's not very good at communicating with teachers. Most adults, really. He's good with pitches- just terrible at small talk. Huey makes up for it most of the time, making his appreciation from all of them. A verbal greeting card to the family they don't have, signed with one hand, switching between cursive and chicken scratch for the effect of making it into three.

A hand goes to each of his shoulders from behind, and this time Louie  _does_  jump, letting out a tiny yelp, because Huey was next to him and Dewey was still on stage. Before he can panic a warm chuckle shakes him out of it. He twists his head around as Gladstone reaches over him to get at the cookies. "Ooh, I love these!"

"Uncle Gladstone!" he cried, then immediately wished he hadn't. Louie always felt self-conscious when the gander was around, and this week had been far from kind on him. When was the last time he showered? Or even got around to preening his feathers? It'd been Dewey, Dewey, Dewey lately; helping him get ready, helping him practice his lines (he had one in total, but Louie had promised), helping him primp and pretty himself for his big stage debut. Gladstone always looked so proper and clean, to Louie. Everything about him _shined_ , from his clothes to his feathers to his demeanor. He suddenly felt like he should be hiding away in some alley, begging for chump change.

If Gladstone noticed his less-than-stellar appearance, he didn't comment on it, ruffling his top feathers. "Hiya, green bean." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Gonna have to ask you kiddos to be quiet, okay? I told your Uncle D. I was goin' to the bathroom."

Huey swallows the last of his cookie. "Hi, Uncle Gladstone. How'd you get back here, anyway?"

Gladstone lifted Huey's hat to ruffle his feathers too, almost sending his guidebook to the floor, but the oldest duckling is good at catching it when it falls. "Ah, you know how it is. Took a left turn at Albuquerque."

Louie, feeling he had a bit of frosting on his beak, hurriedly wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Realizing this was a miscalculation, he began to scratch it off, thinking of the squished cash and cookie in his pocket. Ten bucks seemed as meager as he was, now.

"Shouldn't you get back to your seat?" Huey insisted kindly. "The play is still going on."

Gladstone still had a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it. "Meh. Two outta three kidlets is pretty good."

Huey hurries back to do his job soonafter. Louie and Gladstone sit against a brick wall background from a play Louie's never seen but is sure Dewey will one day go into. They don't talk much, surreptitiously stealing cookies from the platter when Mrs. Johnson isn't looking. There isn't any left by the time the play ends, so the cast won't get any, but Louie figures they already got the reward of pleasing the masses, so it all equals out in the end.

"Here." Louie sets the napkin-covered snack on the pot of Dewey's flower, which is filled with cardboard dirt. "For the star of the show."

Dewey leans over to tap the top of his head with a purple petal. "Thanks."

"You can't get out of that, can you?"

"Can I ever?"

Huey sighed and bellowed for Uncle Donald, who stopped arguing with Uncle Gladstone about holding the camera to come help, shoving it into his chest.

* * *

The sea is theirs. The sailors like to pretend that they own it, because they fish and sail across it, but they were raised on it. They never had to get sea legs- rather, they were forced to get land legs, and almost every morning those first two steps onto the dock are a smidge odd, like standing atop a tiny hill on a plain.

Swimming is one of the few things Uncle Donald is lenient on, as far as Uncle Donald goes. He'd had them taught as ducklings- though, as ducks, there was very little to teach- and while he insisted they wear life vests, they didn't mind so much when they were actually in the water. Dewey was the strongest swimmer; Huey held the personal record for distance; and Louie had proven time and time again to be quite gifted at the back float.

"Plays are weird," Dewey says on one such occasion, two days after. "But I really like them."

"I'm not sure plays like  _you_ , Dewey." Huey kicks a wave his way in jest. "Mrs. Johnson doesn't, anyway."

"Mrs. Johnson doesn't like any of us."

"She likes  _me_."

"Everyone likes you, Hubert. It's a side-effect of knowing you."

Louie sat up. Is sitting up the proper term when it comes to water? He doesn't really know. "What's that make us, then? Chopped liver?"

Huey shot him a look. "It makes  _you_  the duck who ate all the cookies."

"Uncle Gladstone ate them too!"

"She told me they were homemade."

"Then she  _lied_."

"Of course she did. But it's still not nice to horde them all; cheap or otherwise."

Dewey glanced in the direction of the houseboat. Uncle Donald is grilling, his signature rock music blaring. It's a nice and comfortable scene. But they all notice his lack of dancing. The worried frown on his face. He inches closer and lowers his voice. "They're giving him less hours. That's... not a good thing, is it?"

Louie looked at him blankly. "Is it ever?"

Huey paddles over to put a hand on both of their shoulders. "Hey, relax. Even if the job  _does_  go south-"

"Like it always does," Louie chipped in.

"Summer break is coming up! He always finds an out-of-town job by then." The oldest triplet forces himself to smile. Both of his brothers see right through it, though they pretend not to. "It won't be too long this time."

Dewey harshly shushed him. "Don't jinx it for us, dude!"

Uncle Donald calls for dinner. They eagerly swim home.

* * *

Louie doesn't like to steal. Not out of any moral repugnance, but because he's not very good at it.

Still. Twenty dollars are twenty dollars, and Knucklehead McGee probably doesn't notice much of anything going on beyond whoever he's decided to beat on that particular day. He pockets it from his wallet after it falls to the floor. When the teacher searches bags at the end of the day, Louie doesn't have one to search. He shares one with Huey and Dewey, and it's Huey's turn to carry it. He gets out of a pocket check by faking nausea.

Louie slips it into his sewing kit, patting it for good measure. It's never a bad idea to keep extra money lying around.

* * *

Uncle Donald is a force of nature. It's amazing to watch. It's almost as fun to listen to. The triplets, quietly fiddling with their own work and passing possible prank notes back and forth when the babysitter turns away, get an earful of loud and angry quacking as the older man walks up the pier. A clank. He's gotten his foot caught in something. A splash. He'd lost his balance and fallen in while trying to shake it off. Huey laughs. That all ends when the front door slams open, revealing the Uncle in question. The look on his face sends their eyes to the floor, hearts sinking.

That's not anger. That's defeat.

Donald greets the babysitter, politely shaking her hand. They exchange a few solemn words. The door clicks shut behind her. Uncle Donald collapses into his chair like a deflated balloon, complete with sound.

Huey waves his hand to garner his brothers' attention. He points to himself, then the stove. He gestures to Dewey, then Uncle Donald's bedroom. Finally, he glances at Louie, making signs that he should entertain their downtrodden Uncle. They all nod.

Louie is good at making himself into what others want him to be, and what others want him to be usually includes a charming, warm duckling. He puts a skip in his step and sends some finger guns his way as he approaches. Really makes a big deal out of the small act of walking towards him. "Eyy, if it isn't the man of the hour. It's ya boi, the designated lap curler, here to help you feel better."

"Louie..." Donald starts, then stops. It's not a refusal. Louie slides in next to him. There's not much room, but he makes it work. The water doesn't really bother him- they're ducks living on the ocean, after all. They always reek of sea salt.

"Sorry, Uncle Donald. Gotta do it." He shrugged. "Hugs are good for your health. The doctor says so."

"Which doctor?"

" _The_  doctor. The  _best_  doctor. You wouldn't know 'em."

Dewey's thudding steps almost rock the boat as he sprints back into the room from their Uncle's, holding his blanket over his head. "Gotcha your blanket!" he proclaims unnecessarily, tossing it on top of them. Donald's head poked out with a loud 'Wak!' Louie did the same with a smaller, more high-pitched 'Mwak!'

Huey has a pan on the stove, flicking the heat on medium. "I'll cook us dinner, Uncle Donald! You just relax."

" _Don't touch the stove_ ," he repeats for the umpteenth time, and Huey, ever a rule-follower, flicks it back off with a grunt of displeasure. Donald sinks into the blanket with a sigh. "Please, boys. Just... stop."

Dewey heaved himself onto the duck's lap, legs lounging across Louie's. Louie pushed them off. "I'll help you wash your blanket later if you want, Uncle Donald."

"Thanks, Dewey."

Huey perched on the arm of the couch, hands politely clasped together. "And I'll help you clean it properly once Dewey messes it up somehow."

That got a chuckle out of him. "Thank you, Huey."

Louie shoved his hands in his pockets, wondering if it was too soon to mention the twenty in his sewing kit. It probably was. They could use that later, when things got really bad. For now, it was just nice to have. "Another dud?"

"Yup."

"That sucks."

" _Yup_."

Huey reached over and pulled him into a hug. "Aww, it's okay, Uncle Donald. We've gotten by before."

Donald pulled them all in for a squeeze, sounding sad and a smidge regretful. "I'm sorry you've had to, boys."

 _Give it time_ , Louie wants to say, but it's clearly not the right time for it.  _I'll make us more money than you've ever seen. We'll be swimming in the stuff. Scrooge McDuck'll want our autographs. Uncle Gladstone will stay more than a few hours. It'll be great._

* * *

The Duck family is nothing if not flexible. They're a very stubborn lot, with the hot lick of a bad temper running through the family line, and they aren't interested in surrendering. The general consensus was that Huey had garnered most of the latter, but Louie and Dewey both had their moments. One such occasion, banned from mention within their walls, they had all blown up at once, and, well... It's best left to the imagination.

No one bothers to say these things as the boys waddled off to bed, despite all the hopeful hugs and stifled worries. It's not anything they don't all know already. Just like they know they aren't going to sleep very well. There are too many plans to make. Lines to draw. They haven't even picked out the toys they'd sell to their peers, if it got to that point. It had before.

Louie slips out of bed around two, creeping out into the living area. Uncle Donald is still in his chair, is still covered up, leaning over a pocketbook, tapping the pen to his forehead like it'll give him ideas. It's not a scene he's unfamiliar with. Uncle Donald scoots over as he approaches, too tired to argue. The youngest triplet looked over the funds, sucking in a breath between his teeth. That's... a lot less than what he'd hoped.

"The next few days are gonna be busy, huh?" he asked.

"Yup."

"You're on the yup train tonight."

"I either say yup or I say curse words. Yup is better."

Louie leaned in, eyes lighting up. "I won't tell Huey and Dewey if you won't."

Uncle Donald let out a weary laugh, ruffling the feathers on his head. It's something he and Uncle Gladstone both do, though far be it from Louie to point it out to them. They'd probably stop. "Give it a couple of years."

Huey's head popped around the corner. "Ooh, are we doing math? I like math."

They both moved until there was a nephew on each side. Louie couldn't help but feel a bit jealous. It wasn't often any of them got one-on-one time with their Uncle (not counting lectures), and it felt like the older boy had intruded. Still. Money was more important. Money is always more important.

* * *

Dewey steals Uncle Donald's attention. Huey steals the school's. He's the straight A student, with a love of extracurriculars and assisting teachers. When a kid hands out treats on their birthday, he's the one they always ask to hand out the napkins. That's just who he is.

Louie coasts under the radar, and he likes it that way. Coasting is what gave him the ability to hide a go fish ring two years back. Coasting is how he managed to turn a school election in his favor, make cash, and never hear a word of reprimand for it. Coasting gets him twenty bucks he can keep in his sewing kit like a piece of gold found under the sandbox. He's good at working with what he's got, and what he's got is working. Huey is a gold pot of his own making, however. Kids'll pay practically anything to get his help on homework, answers for tests, and just a general grade boost. Sure, there's always the select few who remember his infamous dodgeball match in third grade and avoid him, but Louie can work with that.

Louie... well, on his own, he's not much good. Not with this, anyway. Nobody wants his help. Nobody'll pay him to dive off the garage like they do Dewey. His pitches are good, he's made certain of that, but kids don't care about sales. Most of them don't even care about money. It's baffling.

"Shouldn't you be knitting a sweater or something?" One particular case replies, tacking on a dried-out nickname- Lazy Louie- to the end of it. Yes, he's lazy. Of course he is. But that's for when they have a steady source of income. People with cash can  _afford_  to be lazy. People without barely manage to afford the time to sleep. He's pretty sure Huey is so busy studying and working to do much of that at all.

* * *

The first thing to go is the TV. They're used that coming and going, and don't complain. The internet going down puts a grind in their gears, if only because a lot of homework they do is online, but that's what the library is for. When they get bored, they always have Dewey to liven things up. The hardest fight to lose is with the water company. It's especially hard when they're surrounded by salt water.

The boys aren't privy to the types of things Uncle Donald does during dry spots, but the running assumption is a door-to-door type situation, doing chores to get enough cash to feed them that night. Uncle Donald comes home every night a little more sore, a little more tired, and a little more defeated. They eat a lot of ramen and hot dogs. Louie has grown to  _really hate hotdogs_.

"Happy birthday, boys," Donald says one day, hugging them close. The lights go out that night, and they don't get them back for a week after. He'd splurged on a cake and presents instead.

* * *

"Happy Holidays, cuz." Gladstone slung an arm around Donald's shoulders, a plastic cup in his free hand. Together, the duo stood over the old lamp he'd made into their Christmas tree. "How's it goin'?"

Donald gestured bleakly. "How do you  _think_  it's going?"

"Ooh, you mean that  _isn't_  a fashionable decoration? I wouldn't have guessed." Gladstone took a sip of his water, smacking his lips. He hoped he came across as believable. "You've really spruced up the joint, big D."

"Don't insult me."

The gander let out a frustrated breath. "I was trying to _save face_. Look it up. It's not the same thing as insulting." Gladstone took a significant amount of time eyeing the tired slump to his cousin's shoulders, the bags under his eyes. He lowered his voice. "The offer is still on the table, Donald. Just let me help you out."

Donald shook him off with a stubborn quack. "I got this. I'll have somethin' set up by spring break, just you wait."

"And if you don't?"

The duck was saved from answering by his nephews boarding the boat. But, in a way, the mostly-healed black eye Dewey carried was an answer all on its own, along with the cheap lollipop Huey had clutched in his fist. "Look, Uncle Donald! We got you a present!"

Louie, staring at his feet, glanced up to get a read on his response, and instead found himself only a few feet away from his other Uncle. He hopped with surprise, then raced over for a hug. "Uncle Gladstone! Wh-When did you get here?"

All at once, Gladstone's frown faded, flipping upside down as he patted the juvenile on the back. "Ah, what's that matter? I came all this way to celebrate with my family." He put a hand on Louie's shoulder, leading him back out the door and to the stern. "Let's give your Uncle some space to make din-din." He held the door open, exchanging one last frustrated look with his cousin before disappearing out into the rapidly fading sunlight.

"What are you and Uncle Donald fighting about  _this_  time?" Louie asked as the door shut, well-used to the duo's antics.

"Boring grownup stuff." Gladstone leaned his elbows on the railing and took in a deep breath of sea air. "What was with the shiner on our registered tsunami, anyway?"

"Dewey's been picking fights," Louie recited tiredly, joining him. A small smile came on his features; the ocean was the one thing they'd never have to worry about losing. "For cash."

"Ah. Does Double D know?"

"No.  _Please_  don't tell him. He thinks he fell down the stairs at Funso's."

"Alright, alright," Gladstone soothed, doing his signature feather-ruffle. "You've convinced me. I'll keep my beak shut." He looked back at the shut door, contemplative, and finally nudged him. "Wanna dip your feet in?"

"If I swam without my life jacket Uncle Donald would kill me."

"We've got a short dock right here." He pointed at it with the hand holding the water cup. "We can just sit and cool off."

Neither Uncle or nephew (though, realistically, Gladstone wasn't their Uncle, but that was what Donald had instructed they call him, and they had followed) spoke as they sat down on the dock, setting their webbed feet into the chilly water. All any member of the Duck family had to do was glance out the window and they'd spot the two of them, but that was probably why they'd sat where they had. No point picking a fight on Christmas Eve.

Gladstone finally turns to him. "How you doin, green bean?"

"Meh," Louie said. He kicked up a wave. "Same old, same old."

"You've got your Uncle's pride in you," he observed. "Don't like to admit when things are going pear-shaped."

Louie's smile slipped into a frown. Guilt ate at him as he took a drink from Gladstone's cup. "You're not ashamed of me, are you?"

" _What_?" The idea surprised him. "No, no, no. Don't think like that, little guy." He pulled the boy into a side-hug. "This isn't your fault. This isn't your brothers' fault, either. It's no one's fault."

"I know that," he replied tartly. "But you're always making more money. You can have any house or life you want. We just _can't_." Louie's chin disappeared beneath the neckline of his hoodie. "Some of us just aren't that lucky."

"But what if you could be?" Gladstone blurted out, then lightly tapped his head. "Wait. No. That was a terrible way to start this."

The youngest triplet boggled at the gander, scanning his features for the tell-tale smirk that this was a joke. There wasn't anything like that present on his face, which had become shockingly earnest. "What was that supposed to mean?"

Gladstone set the cup down and took in a deep, fortifying breath. "How do you feel about coming to live with me?"

Louie stared at him blankly. "Until Uncle Donald gets a job?"

"Until you're ready and able to move out."

He stared at the dark water below, uncomprehending. "You mean, like... permanently?"

"Yup."

"Oh," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Gladstone put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me, Louie. Donald  _tries_. He tries so, so hard for you. But this up, down, up, down thing? It's no way for a kid to grow up, man." He patted his chest. "And, yeah, I'm a bit of a flake, but my luck isn't. You'll always be taken care of."

"What about Huey and Dewey?"

"If they want to come with, they can. I just figured I'd have the best chance with you." Gladstone picked up the cup, swirling the water around inside. "You shouldn't have to spend your childhood making money because you _need_  to."

"I don't  _need_  to."

"Dewey certainly thinks you need to."

Louie didn't have a proper response to that. All his life, it had been his duty to make the family rich. It'd been in his bones. He had to find the right scheme, the right con, and then they'd be rolling in money. Uncle Donald would never have to work again. They'd never have to lift a finger. Coming home to their dinky little houseboat and helping Uncle Donald tally the blow to the bank account served as a reminder. To have all that dashed... To just up and  _leave_...

It felt criminal. And not in a fun way.

Gladstone pulled him into another half-hug, then stood. "Just think it over, alright? You don't have to make a decision tonight." He attempted a smile. "It's the holiday season, after all."

He found the strength to nod, mouth slightly ajar. When Uncle Donald calls, they go inside. Louie pretends he's alright and robotically wolfs down some hotdogs, feeling like someone had taken his heart and chucked it into the ocean, letting the salt creep into the crevices. If he wasn't careful, moss would begin to grow along the tubing.

* * *

Louie pretends to sleep in past Uncle Donald's alarm, when they usually wake up and hug him goodbye. He pretends even when Huey comes in and shakes his arm, only stopping when Uncle Donald chides him for it. It's the first time he's ever had to con his way out of a hug.

Knowing what he knows feels like he's betraying his family. The mere idea that he could leave Duckburg and never come back made his skin crawl in a weird way. But Uncle Gladstone had meant every word he'd said. He always had, when it came to Louie.

Dewey had Uncle Donald's attention. Huey had the school's. He had Uncle Gladstone.

Speak of the devil, Louie thought, as Dewey slipped into the bedroom. "Hey," he said, then repeated it. "Hey." There was a shuffling, then Dewey was crawling up the bed, under the blankets, repeating the word over and over again as he did so, finally popping up to his right. The middle triplet draped an arm over the youngest one, like he too was settling in for a nap. "Hey," he repeated for the last time.

"Hello to you too," Louie answered finally, with much sarcasm.

Dewey poked him in the neck. "You were weird this morning. Why you being weird?"

He yawned. "I was  _tired_."

The bed dipped on the other side, signaling that Huey was on the prowl. "Hi ho, brother. Have you secured the suspicious one?"

He gave a thumbs up. "Aye, aye, cap'n."

Louie let out a tiny whine of complaint as Huey flopped in front of him. "Can't a guy take a nap around here anymore?"

Huey squinted at him, so close that his breath ghosted over the younger duck's beak. He'd yet to brush his teeth. "What's up, Lou-Lou?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"Don't make me get out the cavalry."

Louie raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't."

Dewey rolled away, and in that second- a second too late, he might add- Louie realized that he would. Quite happily, even.

Huey pounced with a war cry, flopping him onto his back. Fingers dug into his sides insistently, sending him into a screeching bout of laughter. Louie twisted back and forth in his grip, kicking his legs. Disgraceful snorts left his lips. He knew, as all the boys did, that he only had to call out a ceasefire and it would stop, but he was far too stubborn to go that route. He jolted his head up, conking them together. Huey let out a word he wasn't technically supposed to know and fell back.

Dewey nudged him. "Now we gotta make him eat soap. Them's the rules."

"Revenge," replied Louie, between deep breaths. "A dish best served bubbly."

Huey regained his higher footing, a devious look in his eye. "Ooh, you're gonna get it now."

He turned a pleading eye to his older sibling. "Bro, help me out here."

The middle triplet held up his hands. "Some things are beyond my abilities, bro."

"I thought you  _loved_  me, Duford!"

With that Huey collapsed onto Louie, rolling over onto his free side. "I'll get my recompense later," he decided aloud, then turned a critical eye to his newly freed hostage. "Now, what up?"

"Nothing is up?"

"I swear to gosh, Louie, I  _will_  smack you."

"Ooh, things are heatin' up in Duck house."

"Shut up, Dewey," they said together, and Dewey laughed.

Louie found he couldn't meet Huey's insistent gaze. Not under this kind of pressure. Uncle Gladstone's offer didn't feel ready to go public yet. It had to cultivate some meaning. Like fine wine. Or procrastination in the face of reality.

"It's just..." he started, pausing halfway through. "It's been hard, is all."

"Oh," Huey said. The playful air vanished with the word. " _Of course_  it's been hard, Louie. And it sucks, yeah, but we'll move past it. We always do."

"Yeah," Dewey added. "We're tough."

"I know, _I know_ ," he sighed, as if the knowledge were some great burden and not a business edge. When they made it big- when  _he_  made it big- this would be the kind of autobiographical nonsense that his fans would eat up in a heartbeat. He had to remember that. Right now, it just felt like invisible rocks he had to dodge around. "I just wish it was  _easier_ , y'know?"

"That  _would_  be nice," Huey agreed. "I dunno how we'd swing it, though."

"Yeah," Louie said, staring at the ceiling. "Me neither."

* * *

An odd mood hung around the triplets as school went back into session. Louie attributed it to Gladstone's offer. It was true that the other two weren't aware of it, but it was also true that he  _was_ , and it sat heavily in his belly, and they probably picked up on that. A bubble of possibilities rose up to encircle them, full of secrets and plans and the salty sea air permanently encrusted into their feathers. It was only a matter of time before it popped.

No one expects the popper to be Huey, but he is, and it comes from a commotion at the playground. Knucklehead McGee, still sore over his missing cash and perhaps a little suspicious, tells him their Uncle is a deadbeat, and Huey, with his never-ending temperament, knocks him a solid one in the face, chest puffed and standing on his tiptoes.

Louie nudges his foot with his own as his older brother sits slumped outside the principal's office, carrying a swollen jaw. "You're a colossal moron."

"What else was I gonna do?" he demanded, crossing his arms in a pout. "He dirtied our family name with his words."

"It's not your job to beat up people who badmouth us."

"Then whose job is it?"

"It's no one's job. It's, like, a not-job. Nobody will ever be employed for that job."

"That's incorrect," Dewey responded, sitting down next to the (mostly) cooled off duckling. "It  _totally_  is a job. It's called being a bodyguard."

"We're too young for jobs."

Huey sighed wistfully. "If only."

Louie shifted uncomfortably. "Believe me, I'm down with being too young."

Huey pulled his legs up, mumbling into his knees. "We can't keep this up. Something's gotta break."

He sat down on the boy's free side. "Dude, who cares what that guy thinks? He's gonna be pumping gas in a handful of years."

The oldest boy flapped his hands in frustration, hating that he couldn't explain. "Because! If  _he's_  talking, that means everybody else is talking too." His voice trailed off into an impudent mutter. "And that means we're not holding it together like we're supposed to."

They lapsed into a silence, which Louie hesitantly broke. "Things  _have_  been pretty rough this time around."

"It's  _never_  taken Uncle Donald this long."

"Yes, it has. Don't exaggerate."

"Yeah, _when we were babies_!" Huey cried, looking more lost than he ever had before. "Something has to break, you guys. It just  _does_."

Louie stared at the clock on the wall, ticking time away, a thousand words quivering at the tip of his beak. There was a lot he wanted to say. He wanted to reassure them it wasn't going to be like this forever. He wanted to remind them of their vow to get rich one day, how they'd be a big deal and never have a rough patch again.  _We're gonna be so rich Scrooge McDuck'll look at us and give us a respectful nod if we met him in a hallway somewhere. We're gonna go places._

But that meant nothing right now. He knew it didn't. And he knew that Uncle Gladstone's offer, sitting lodged in his ribs, didn't either. Deep down, he was afraid they'd choose Uncle Donald over him.

He was afraid he  _wouldn't_.

Louie's lips pursed, then opened, but the next words weren't his.

"We could run away."

The oldest and youngest of the Duck brood whipped their heads to stare at their middle sibling. Dewey's brow was creased, beak slightly parted, as if the sentence had left a bad taste in his mouth.

"What-" Huey started, but it came out a squeak. He cleared his throat. "What did you just say?"

Dewey closed his mouth and turned his head to face them. "You heard me. Let's run away."

"And what, pray tell," Louie butted in. "Would that solve?"

"A bunch of things, actually." Dewey counted them down on his fingers. "Uncle Donald would have a lot more money, for one. He wouldn't be bogged down by school, or turn down promotions because of traveling or danger like he normally does. He can live by his own hours, if he wants."

"You've thought this through," the youngest noted.

Dewey shook his head. "Just popped up, actually."

Huey tapped his chin. "You... have a point." He looked around, as if it were some great secret, and lowered his voice. "But we can't just walk out of the houseboat. People  _know us_  here. And it just doesn't feel right."

Louie's heart skittered. If Huey was considering it, then the plan had become a possibility. He chose his next words very carefully. "...We'd have to find the right time."

They stopped, then, as if the topic had suddenly materialized and stood above them, crossing its arms. It didn't feel like quitting, necessarily, but it felt  _wrong_.

He doesn't know why he says it. Maybe he just has a morbid curiosity. But there's no taking it back. "We could go to Vegas and get rich, then come home. Uncle Donald would be so..." Louie tried to come up with a word for it. Proud was a lie. It wasn't even a good lie. "... _Happy_."

* * *

They don't bring it up again; though, judging by the frantic twitching, Huey  _really_  wants to. He's always needed a plan. Reassurance. Neither of which they have. The chord of guilt that ties them together is burning hot, waiting to snap, and there's nothing they can do but tug.

That is, until Uncle Donald bursts into the houseboat one day- literally bursts. Slamming the door open, startling all three of the boys. The babysitter, deep in slumberland, rolls over. His grin is maniacal; his laughter, infectious. He pulls them all into a hug.

"I got a job, boys! I got a  _job_!"

It won't fix everything overnight, but it's a start. The boys meet each other's eyes over their Uncle's shoulders, and know it's time to start themselves. Now that Uncle Donald is making money, they're making themselves into burdens rather than assets.

* * *

The shabby old family van zooms up the dirt track with a surprising amount of grace, given that it's ancient and not at all built for it. Uncle Donald is all smiles, even when they come up on the cabin they're supposed to keep clean and warm until its owners come back from vacationing down south.

"Isn't it a bit late?" Huey had asked, when Uncle Donald had explained where they were going, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "It's spring break."

He'd simply shrugged. Nothing could get through his good mood. Not even the rising tension between his three nephews, which he was too busy packing and planning to notice. Louie slips his sewing kit into his hoodie pocket. Huey and Dewey are probably regretting their pocketless existence by now.

The cabin itself wasn't built for a family. If they were being honest with themselves, it didn't really look to be built for anybody. There was a single door and window in front, leading into a bare living room. There was a small stove, and a bathroom in the back. Another window off to the side. "An extreme bachelor's pad," Uncle Gladstone would've called it. Personally, Louie saw it more as a murder hut.

Together, the trio looked over a map while Uncle Donald worked, raking and burning long-dead leaves with a cheerful whistle. Huey pointed out a possible hiking trail while he cleaned out the fridge. Dewey gleefully highlighted a river as dinner was cooking, taking more enjoyment out of marking on something pristine than what the actual point of marking it was. When Uncle Donald goes to the bathroom, Louie opens up his sewing kit, showing off the twenty he's kept pocketed. It feels almost like he's bearing his soul, saying  _'hey, look at me, I steal and keep money hoarded because I never feel secure.'_  Louie strangleholds that voice. Things will be different soon.

"How long have you had that, Louie?" Huey demands, but that's all they say about it. It's all they ever say. Uncle Donald has always been the yeller of the family. They're long past trying to correct him. (And they all see the relief on Huey's face as he re-thinks their budget. Twenty bucks means _bus tickets_. Twenty bucks means  _ramen_. Twenty bucks gives a tiny light to see with in this dark, senseless idea they cobbled together.)

Uncle Donald's chipper disposition doesn't falter, but his body does, and all that work takes a toll on him. By the time they've eaten dinner, he's yawning, and loud snores emanate from the couch as the boys wash their dishes. Huey pulls a thin blanket over him, tucking it under. There's a hard line in his jaw when he turns to them, nodding.

Dewey is the first one out. Louie is the last. He takes a good, long look. It finally sinks in that he won't  _see_  Uncle Donald again. At least, not until they got rich, and that could take time. That alone makes him want to dive under the covers and pretend it never crossed his mind. He's always been the least brave of them. Huey makes a frustrated gesture, and Louie gets a move on. The door creaks closed with finality.

Huey drops his voice to a whisper, pointing at the patch of woods to their right. "If we keep going that way, we should eventually hit that trail."

Dewey doesn't looks so sure. "How can you tell?"

The oldest sibling rolled his eyes, pulling a compass out of his hat. "Did you really think I'd lead us into the woods, in the middle of the night, with literally no sense of direction?"

"Touché."

 _This was a mistake,_  Louie thinks. They're not even out of sight yet.  _They don't know about Uncle Gladstone's offer. Where do they think we're gonna sleep tonight?_  "Wait-"

" _Keep it down_ ," Huey hisses, eyeing the cabin warily. "Let's walk a bit. Then we can talk."

At that point, Louie has two options. He can stay with Uncle Donald where it's safe, or he can go with his brothers. He reluctantly shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket and follows, clutching a secret that wants to explode out of him. In his defense- though, really, there's no defense for any of this- there hasn't exactly been any time to chat with them lately. The babysitter is always around, and Uncle Donald's hearing is keener than any hawk he's met.

Huey leads the charge into the foliage, though Dewey is close behind, barreling through things and generally making a ruckus, but that's just Dewey. He eats attention for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. Louie is almost bitter about it. Almost. He knows darn well he'd go bonkers if even half that attention was on him. He gets more than his fair share of it when he steps a webbed foot into some sort of animal excrement, jumping and squealing and complaining for so long he half-expects his brothers to ditch him, but Huey gives him a piggyback ride and they keep moving.

"Dude, you're buff," Louie compliments, patting his arm.

"Thanks. Now, what was it you were gonna say?"

"Oh. Right. That."

"Yes, that."

"It's weird, trying to be serious while being cradled."

"You wanna walk?"

"I never said that."

Huey sighed. "Work with me here, Louie."

Louie presses his chin between Huey's shoulder blades, closing his eyes. He's not even a little tired. He just wants comfort. "You remember when Uncle Gladstone last stopped by?"

"I remember him and Uncle Donald tussling over what flavor of omelet was best."

He doesn't recall that, but he'd been fairly distracted that night, so he let it slide. "We had a talk outside. And he, uh... offered? To let us live with him."

The only sound, for what feels like hours, is the gentle crunch-crunch of leaves as the two boys walk, digesting. Finally, Dewey said, with a small amount of wonder, "So  _that's_  why you didn't complain about having hotdogs for the third night in a row."

"It was the fourth," Huey corrects, pouting. "I can't believe we had a brotherly bonding session right after and you didn't tell us. That sucks."

"In my defense, I was a  _little_  freaked out." Louie lifted his head to peer into the darkness. "I love Uncle Gladstone and all, but I never thought about living with him."

"Still sucks."

"I'm not gonna apologize." That's a lie. If they kept pressing, he probably would say sorry. In fact, he'd probably beg for forgiveness. Louie might be slick, but he's never handled disappointment well.

They're quiet a long moment. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Huey shrugs. "Well, we can't go there right now. Uncle Donald would find us."

That hits him like a slap. "Oh. I, uh, I guess you're right."

"Besides, where does Uncle Gladstone even  _live_  right now?" Dewey piped up. "He's always moving around, getting mansions and yachts and stuff."

Louie ducks his head, ashamed. They're right. They can't go to anyone now. Uncle Gladstone's offer is useless.

Huey lets him stay on his back until they find the hiking trail, depositing him on the well-trodden dirt without a word. Louie found it hard to not feel guilty as his older brother stretched, grimacing with pain. He'd offered, and Louie had accepted. It was as simple as that. They continue down the dirt hill, feeling a gradual incline pull at their legs as they do. It's too dark to see into the foliage, so they hold hands. It's a long, creepy night.

They emerge at a bus stop in the early gray of dawn, twigs sticking out of their clothes. Dewey's hand is sweaty, but no one lets go until Louie pays the bus driver, who looks very displeased as they break the twenty with dollar bills from their wallet. They choose seats near the front, feeling it slowly lurch into action.

"This was a stupid idea," Dewey decides suddenly, voice nary a whisper.

Huey reaches out to slap his arm. "We've all reached a point in our minds where we've realized this is a stupid idea,  _Duford_. But it's a  _bit_  late to turn back now. Now, hush and sleep. It's a long way to Vegas."

* * *

Louie dozes, off and on, jolting and jerking with the bus. They switch routes twice, then walk some more. All the walking is making him tired, but he knows from the twitch in Huey's eye not to bring it up. The sun comes up, then starts to go down. They aren't anywhere near Vegas. Louie misses Uncle Donald. It's like a toothache, only in his chest.

Tired, dirty, and generally miserable, the trio curled up for their second night apart behind a dumpster. It's only spring, but they don't feel cold. Scratch that. He feels too warm. Louie buries his face in his hoodie, inhaling sea salt as he drifts into a fitful sleep.

The headlights startle them awake around one A.M., and even in pitch blackness, lit only by a streetlamp and a car, they recognize the light green of Uncle Gladstone's favorite dress shirt.

* * *

"I think this is the stupidest stunt you kids have ever pulled," Gladstone tells them as they get into the backseat. He hadn't bothered to leave the car, and they'd willingly approached. "And, believe me, your Uncle Donald has told me about some doozies."

"Do you live around here?" Huey asks, face scrunched up at the overbearing smell of air freshener.

"No," he grunts tersely, pulling back onto the four-way. "Your Uncle called me up. I went for a day-long drive, and my luck led me here. You're _lucky_  it did. Har har."

"You've been driving all day?"

They jerk into a turn. Gladstone hasn't smiled once. It's not like him to be so outwardly serious. "I'm getting a hotel. Cover your ears."

Huey and Dewey did so. Louie, hands in his pockets, does not, but Gladstone doesn't seem particularly bothered. "Fucking shit," he says, as if that alone were a sentence, and that's the end of that.

* * *

Uncle Gladstone turns into an Orange Ceiling, reserving them a two bed for the night, all smiles to the lady at the receptionist's desk. He leads them down the hall to the door, swipes the card, holding it open for them, closing and locking it behind them. That smile vanished by the time he'd turned around.

"And whose idea was this, exactly?"

Louie stared at his feet. Huey stared at Uncle Gladstone. They'd never been prone to snitching before. Dewey took in a deep breath and stepped forward, like he was accepting some sort of trophy.

"I should've guessed," Gladstone mused. He dropped to his knees, grabbing the boy's shoulders. "You about killed your Uncle, kiddo. Bad move.  _Really_  bad move."

"We were gonna go to Vegas," the middle boy mumbled, refusing to meet the gander's eye. "Get rich."

"Vegas is only pretty at night, and the same goes for Vegas casinos," was his response. "Hit the showers, boys. Your Uncle'll be here around noon."

Louie suddenly realized how terrible they must look; twigs sticking up everywhere, smelling of garbage and buses. The boy all but tosses his hoodie off, letting it fall to the floor after banging against the wall. Being naked was probably an improvement. Huey was too tired to even scold him, setting his hat down next to the crumpled ball of fabric. Dewey followed behind, arms crossed, pouting.

"Good going, Louie," the middle child growls once the door is closed and the bath water is running. "You jinxed us!"

"Wh- how did I jinx us?"

He jabbed him in the chest. " _You_  brought up Uncle Gladstone! His luck wouldn't have found us if you hadn't painted a big target on our backs!"

"That literally makes no sense, Duford."

" _You_  make no sense, _Louis_! Why even come if you knew he wanted you?" A sour look crossed his features. "You're his favorite, after all."

"So what?" he asked, puzzled. Dewey had never shown all that much interest in winning Gladstone's affections.

Dewey shook his head, climbing into the tub. "You always think you're slick, but you never actually go through with anything. You just ride on everyone else's coattails."

Louie bit back a response and climbed in after him, sitting close to the faucet. He hated talking when he was angry. He always got weepy. That's a bad image to give off. Huey took the far end, looking more exhausted than either triplet had ever seen before. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall.

"Louie, turn the water down," Dewey says finally, shifting uncomfortably. "It's too hot."

Louie doesn't answer.

"Louie, dude. Do it."

Out of spite, Louie turned the cold water off.

They all have red knees when they get out of the tub and collapse into bed. Bed _s_. Dewey very conveniently takes up the rest of the first bed, stretching out. Huey, again, is too tired to do anything, falling asleep without a word. Louie is forced to crawl up with Uncle Gladstone, who doesn't seem particularly bothered, draping an arm over him as he snores.

* * *

The pulsing sound of shower water is what wakes Louie, sitting groggily up in bed. With the shutters down like they are, it's basically impossible to tell what time it is, but he suspects the continental breakfast isn't going to be worth going to. There's a box of donuts on the desk. Uncle Gladstone munches on a glazed one while reading the TV guide in a bathrobe, legs comfortably warm under the covers. He swallows, puts the guide down, and ruffles his feathers with the clean hand. "Howdy, green bean. Y'know, I've been thinking- I need to come up with more green food-based nicknames for you. How do ya' feel about celery?"

"I hate celery."

"Right, right."

"How're you feeling?"

He snorted. "I'm re-evaluating my past assumption of my readiness for children. If  _I_  were Donald, I would've sent all of you off to boarding school. Or to work at Santa's workshop." Uncle Gladstone spared him a look. "Not that I'm retracting anything. It's just been a long two days."

Louie pointed at the bathroom. "Dewey or Huey?"

"Both, actually. Huey mentioned something about wasting water. Which is silly, since this is a hotel, but hey. You gotta appreciate his concern." Uncle Gladstone looked him over. "So, uh, why did you get voted off the island, anyway?"

Louie made a sleepy shrugging noise. "Dewey said I was your favorite."

"You  _are_  my favorite," he replied, sounding puzzled. "But what does that have to do with it?"

"I have no idea." Louie had a warm feeling in his belly. It was rare to be singled out like this. At least, singled out in a _good_  way. "I think I'm going to go throw some ice at him."

Gladstone had gone back to his guide. "Just make sure to clean the water off the floor when you're done," he called distractedly.

When Louie cracked the bathroom door, he was met with an eerie silence. The shower pounded on behind the curtain. Fog wafted around him in a daze. But there were no voices. Neither duckling was willing to talk to the other. True to his word, Louie grabbed a cup of ice from the bucket (when had it been filled?) and tossed it onto Dewey, listening with a sardonic smile as the boy yelped.

"Alright, that's it!" Huey cried, hopping out onto the tile floor, almost falling along the way. "You two, work it out. Uncle Donald's gonna be here in an hour and I'm not ready to face his wrath alone."

He slammed the door behind him. Louie sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. The twenty was gone- used to bus themselves to failure. He felt too vulnerable for this conversation.

"So..." Dewey dragged out finally. "Nice weather we're having, huh?"

"Hm, yeah. Cloudy with a chance of guilt tripping."

"You really are Uncle Gladstone's favorite, you know. I'm not gonna apologize for saying that."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed, sliding to the floor. It's wet on the floor. Whatever. It's not like he wears pants. "And  _you're_  Uncle Donald's favorite."

The water turned off. "That is officially the stupidest thing you've ever said. I'm not his favorite."

"Yes, you are."

"Am not."

"Are so."

"I call bullcrap."

"Don't make me get the soap."

Dewey sinks to the bottom of the tub with a sticky sound. He really should preen himself, before his feathers dry weird. "How can I possibly be Uncle Donald's favorite?" he prodded. "Huey's everybody's favorite."

Louie shrugs. It's not something he's ever really thought out. Dewey is Uncle Donald's favorite. Huey gets the school. Louie has Uncle Gladstone. That's just how it is. "He pays the most attention to you."

"Yeah, because he doesn't trust me," the boy snorts. "I mean, just look at this. I convinced us to run away."

"I brought up Vegas," he reminded him, propping his chin on his hands. "I shoulda just told you guys about Uncle Gladstone sooner. But I was scared."

"Of what?"

"I dunno. That we'd get separated, I guess. Or that you'd tell Uncle Donald."

"I mean, if we  _did_  decide to go with Uncle Gladstone, we'd kinda have to tell Uncle Donald."

"I never said my plan was foolproof, Duford."

"But it was a  _plan_ ," Dewey griped, slapping the wall. Louie winced at the sound. "Don't you get it? You and Huey do so much for Uncle Donald. You guys make green. All I ever do is cause trouble."

"I beg to differ," Louie offered. "Remember all those fights? Serious green there, bro."

"Remember all the money Uncle Donald wasted on first aid?"

"You right, you right."

"I just..." Dewey starts, stops, trying to find the words. He sounded like he lost the race before it began. "I just wish I could help, you know? But I don't."

"That is officially the stupidest thing you've ever said," Louie says. "You help plenty. You, like, keep up morale. Huey 'n me? We can't do that. We get all money-hungry and  _boring._ "

"You're  _always_  money-hungry," Dewey says, with a little laugh that tells Louie he's feeling a little better.

Louie clicks his tongue and sends him finger guns. "You know it."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Huey launches himself into Uncle Donald's arms the moment he opens the hotel door, bawling like a baby. He drags the older duck's name out while he does it, blubbering and sucking in deep breathes. "I'm sorry!" features more than once, as well as, "I'll never do it again, promise!"

Uncle Donald is the ranter and raver of the family, but today he does none of that, instead pulling Louie and Dewey into the family hug with a low, bittersweet 'waak'. "Don't ever scare me like that again," he whispers roughly; and, okay, Louie _does_  cry this time.

They all pretend not to see the nasty look Uncle Donald sends Uncle Gladstone's way, the hard squeeze in their handshake. There's no doubt he's been informed of Gladstone's plans, but they're all too tired for that. No one wants an actual fight. Not even Uncle Donald.

* * *

The second time Louie doesn't appear for good morning hugs, no one makes excuses or tries to wake him up. He's firmly in his Cocoon of Shame, and no one dares break into it before he's had time to stew. It's the first thing on Uncle Donald's itinerary when he gets home from his new job, crawling under the blankets with him. Their feet hang off the edge of the bed.

"Hi," Uncle Donald says.

"Hi," Louie says.

Uncle Donald wraps a gentle arm around his shoulders. "Why the sulking?"

"This was all my fault," he blurts out. "It was my idea to go to Vegas. Huey wouldn't have agreed if I hadn't given him an idea of where we could go. It was so  _stupid_."

Uncle Donald blinks once. Twice. "I don't really care whose idea it was," he admits. "So long as it never happens again."

"I  _know_." Louie kicked his legs in a fit of frustration. Things are easier again. It feels like karma gave them a cop-out. They ran away, came back, and now everything is hunky-dory? Blech. It's bad storytelling. Unrealistic. "It's annoying."

The older duck spared him a hesitant look. "Gladstone told me about his offer."

"I figured. We all did."

"He's... well, he's offered  _before_." Uncle Donald sighed. "I know, logically, he's just trying to help, but I can't trust him with you boys. Not for forever. I dunno if it's because he's a flake, or because I'm selfish."

Louie stared at him, floored. "You're not selfish, Uncle Donald. You're, like, the exact opposite of selfish."

He crossed his arms. "The exact opposite of selfish would want you kids to have the best life you can."

After a bit of thought, the youngest triplet rolled over, draping himself across the duck's belly with a small smile, secure in the knowledge he wouldn't see it. "You give us that, Uncle Donald. Every day."

* * *

They don't see Uncle Gladstone again until it's their birthday, and provisions are still meager. That's just how birthdays are, in the Duck household. Huey was the only one of them who seemed to mind.

He meets Louie outside, just like last time. He's holding a cup of water, just like last time, although this time it's in an actual glass. He leans against the deck railing. "Whelp, Don is still salty with me, but that's what I figured. Dude knows how to hold a grudge."

"Yeah," Louie agrees, having seen it firsthand. "He does."

"How you doing, green bean?"

 _Still poor. Still gotta find the right con. Gotta make us enough to sit in the stars and shrug our problems off like flies._  "Pretty good, all things considered."

Uncle Gladstone casts a look behind him, then back upfront. "The offer is still open, you know," he says softly.

Louie takes in a lungful of salty sea air. It's amazing to think he almost lost it forever. "Thanks, Uncle Gladstone," he says. "But I'm gonna take a hard pass on this one."

**Author's Note:**

> This is over ten-thousand words of duck character development and issues and stuff. Take it, ya'll. Oh, and happy New Years! Hope 2018 doesn't absolutely murder us.
> 
> On a less somber note, this is my 300th story on fanfiction! And my 130th on AO3! Huzzah, and so forth! Here's to learning how to write, one story at a time! This was named after the song, which I was listening to when this all collided into a singular story into my head.
> 
> -Mandaree1


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